


I only learned how to fight

by givebackmylifecas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Five Plus One, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25755049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: He doesn’t see the slap coming. One minute Tatiana is standing in front of him, looking like a child who’s been told Santa Claus isn’t real, the next her hand is colliding with the side of his face. It stings and his head actually snaps to the side, more from the shock than anything else.Also known as 5 times Andrés gets hit +1 time he doesn't
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 25
Kudos: 169





	I only learned how to fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the twitter gc](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+twitter+gc).



> This is for all my twitter group chat pals (the name keeps changing so lets not name the gc here)
> 
> TWs for minor violence and injuries (can't be worse than canon, right?), use of a homophobic slur, canon-typical swearing
> 
> Fic title from the Orville Peck song "Nothing Fades Like the Light"
> 
> Apologies in advance, pretty sure this is all terribly OOC

**1\. Tatiana**

He’d thought it would be easier, going to dinner with Tatiana, forgetting everything that happened in the monastery, everything that happened with Martín.

Tatiana is sitting opposite him, the ambient lighting shining off her coppery hair, the diamond pendant resting in the hollow of her throat only outshone by the gentle smile on her face. She takes a sip of her wine and Andrés stares at her, the long line of her throat, the gentle sweep of her lashes against her cheeks which are dusted with a light blush from the alcohol. She’s a goddess, just like he told Sergio. Beautiful, and smart, and kind, and yet… and yet his mind keeps dragging him back to the monastery, to Martín. To how his hands felt in Andrés’ hair, how his lips pressed against his, how desperately Martín had tried to stop him from leaving.

He shakes his head and tries to focus on Tatiana, his wife, the woman he loves. This is for the best, he knows it. He needs to concentrate on the plan and helping Sergio uphold his father’s legacy.

Martín isn’t cut out for this sort of heist anyway. It has no elegance, isn’t refined in the way the engineer liked, in the way that would get his eyes sparkling with excitement, mouth struggling to catch up with his extraordinary mind, entire body vibrating with elation.

No. This heist, the heist Andrés is sure will be his last, is not for people like Martín. People so passionate and intelligent. This is a heist for miners and soldiers and people who’ll follow the orders Andrés gives them and the rules Sergio comes up with. Expendables, not Martín, never Martín, not –

“Sorry, what were you saying?” he asks, when he realises Tatiana has been trying to get his attention.

She laughs. “I asked if you wanted dessert. The waiter just dropped off the menu.”

His eyes flicker down to the board with the after-dinner treats listed on it. He tries to pull a smile onto his face.

“I don’t know, what do you think?”

Tatiana studies the menu, a little crease growing between her eyebrows as she frowns. She sighs and all Andrés can think about is how Martín had sighed against his mouth, eyes already wet because he knows Andrés better than anyone and already knew he was leaving before he said it out loud.

“Hmm?” he asks when Tatiana puts the menu down in front of him.

“The strudel?” she says, with a tone that lets him know it isn’t the first time she’s said it.

He blinks hard. “Yes, that does look nice. One each or shall we split it?”

There’s concern in Tatiana’s eyes but she manages to smile charmingly anyway. “Well, it’s still our honeymoon after all. I think that means we’re obligated to share all desserts.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, reaching for her hand, running his thumb over her wedding band. “Just one strudel with two spoons it is,” he says to the conveniently appeared waiter.

The man nods and disappears again, taking the menus with him.

Andrés manages to pull himself together for the rest of their dinner, although Tatiana keeps shooting him worried glances throughout. He tries his best to make it up to her as they leave, offering her his jacket when she shivers on the walk back to the car. She smiles up at him and for a moment he curses himself, because why can’t this be enough? Many men would kill to be him, to be with Tatiana, and yet he has this part of him that knows she isn’t enough. Even the most perfect woman in the world isn’t enough, when you’ve found a soulmate in someone else.

He fumbles with his keys when they reach the car and Tatiana sighs.

“What is going on with you, Andrés?” she asks, face pulling into a frown that’s still maddeningly attractive. “You were late to dinner and you’ve been off all evening. Did you fight with Sergio?”

He shakes his head. “No, my brother and I are fine.”

“Then what is it?” She scrutinises his face. “Is it Martín? Did you fight with him?”

“No,” he says and it’s not a lie. It’s not a lie because a fight implies that there had been a back and forth, rather than Andrés walking out on his oldest friend, leaving him stood in the middle of a room, crying like he might never stop again.

Tatiana purses her lips. “But it has something to do with Martín, doesn’t it? What did he do?”

Nothing, is what Andrés wants to tell her. Martín did absolutely nothing. Nothing. It’s two syllables but he can’t force them out and instead he says, “I kissed Martín.”

“I – what?” Tatiana asks, her mouth opening in shock. “You… you mean he kissed you?”

“Yes,” Andrés says and he hates the relief he can see on her face. “But I kissed him too.”

The relief is gone and Tatiana stares at him in naked disbelief. “But… why?” she asks as if she still can’t fathom what he’s just said. To be honest, neither can he.

“Because I had to leave him. He can’t be a part of the mint heist and so I told him that I loved him and we kissed and I left.”

He doesn’t see the slap coming. One minute Tatiana is standing in front of him, looking like a child who’s been told Santa Claus isn’t real, the next her hand is colliding with the side of his face. It stings and his head actually snaps to the side, more from the shock than anything else.

Tatiana is breathing heavily, tears in her eyes. “You’re an asshole,” she spits. “I can’t believe you would do that.”

Andrés holds a hand to his smarting cheek. “I understand your anger, I betrayed you, and I would like to make it clear it won’t happen again.”

“No, you imbecile,” she shouts and Andrés shifts uncomfortably as people across the street visibly stop and stare at them. “I’m angry that you cheated on me, of course I am. But most of all I’m upset that I married someone so cruel.”

“What are you talking about?” he demands and she actually laughs.

“Oh spare me, as if you haven’t known for years that Martín is in love with you. I can’t believe you’d do something like that to him. He’s supposed to be your best friend.”

Andrés swallows. “He… he still is.”

“Maybe in your detached version of reality,” Tatiana scoffs. “But don’t think for a second that if you really did what you told me you did, that you haven’t irreparably broken that man’s heart.”

“Tatiana.” He reaches for her, fingers wrapping around her arm, but she shrugs out of his grip, stepping away from him and the car.

“No, Andrés, I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head regretfully. “I need some time.”

“Some time for what?”

“To think about whether you’re still the man I thought I married.”

She walks away from him, her heels clicking loudly on the concrete pavement.

“Tatiana,” he calls after her, but she doesn’t turn around and he wonders if this is how Martín felt when he watched him walk away at the monastery.

* * *

**2\. Nairobi**

He’s so close to the end, he can taste it. The hallway in front of the vault smells of damp from the tunnel and gun powder and the sour sweat of the other gang members.

Ariadna is trying to run, but he won’t let her. She needs to stay, to watch him do this, to remember his legacy and then tell everyone who’ll listen.

“Berlin, come on we need to go!” Nairobi yells, but he shakes his head.

He knows both she and Helsinki are waiting, but someone needs to stay behind and there’s no reason for that person not to be him.

“I’ll hold down the fort, you two should go,” he says and Nairobi glares.

“What are you talking about?”

“If they enter the tunnel, we’re all dead,” he insists but she’s still staring at him in disbelief.

Nairobi shakes her head. “What are you doing?”

“Someone has to stay in the trench.”

“No!”

“Yes,” he yells. “They’re hot on our heels.”

“We’re all leaving together!” she yells right back and why won’t she just let him do this?

He forces a smile on his face as he steps closer. “You said I was a sexist, right?”

There are tears in her eyes even as she tries to work out just what he’s trying to say.

“Well then,” he says. “Women and gays first.”

Helsinki grabs her, but she wrenches herself free of his grasp.

“I hate you,” she tells Andrés right before she slaps him across the face. “You’re right, you’re a sexist asshole, but you’re a part of this team and you’re coming with us!”

He tries to step back, but she smacks him again.

“No! Snap out of whatever suicidal, hero-complex delusion you’re in right now and get the fuck in that tunnel!”

Her shouts echo through the hallway outside the vaults and he should just pull his gun and force her to leave with Helsinki but the tears in her eyes remind him too much of someone else he left behind. He’d once promised himself he’d go and find Martín, if he made it out of the mint, but with the progression of his illness, he’d given up on that. Here and now, with Nairobi screaming at him, Ariadna cowering behind him, and Helsinki indecisively hovering near the entrance of the tunnel, he allows himself to think of that promise once again.

Nairobi grabs his arm and pulls him towards the vault, down into the tunnel and he lets her - lets her for reasons he doesn’t even really understand himself.

“Berlin,” Helsinki says, breaking him out of his thoughts. “We need to hurry.”

He takes a shaky breath and nods. “I’m coming.”

He runs after Nairobi, still clutching his machine gun to his chest. He can hear Helsinki’s pounding footsteps behind him. There’s no other sounds, just his ragged breathing and Nairobi and Helsinki’s around him.

He hopes it’s a good sign, hopes it means they’ve still got time before the police catch up to them. He looks over his shoulder. If he's quick, he can still stop, still dart past Helsinki and make a stand. Stop the police from getting to the gang, to Sergio.

A hand curls itself into the front of his jumpsuit and he’s jerked forward. Nairobi is still running as she drags him along.

“Don’t even think about it, you motherfucker,” she says and he can’t help but laugh.

They emerge into the warehouse and Sergio tackles him to the ground. His hair is dishevelled and he kind of smells. His glasses are smudged and there are tears in his eyes and Andrés clutches him tighter than he ever has before.

“You were going to stay behind,” Sergio yells and Andrés nods.

“I was. Luckily, I had some sense talked – or rather beaten – into me.”

Sergio sighs. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Andrés frames his face with both hands. “Me too, hermanito. I have some things I have to set right.”

There’s a loud snort from above them. “That I can believe,” Nairobi says. “But right now, we need to go.”

Sergio nods and gets to his feet, pulling Andrés up with him. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

* * *

**3\. Raquel**

Andrés is sick and tired of this. He’d done everything right. He’d kept to himself, he hadn’t contacted anyone on a fucking satellite phone. The only regular contact he’d had was with the doctor administering his experimental treatment. He hadn’t even heard from Sergio in months – hadn’t been able to go and find Martín.

But here they all are, gathered around Sergio’s table with the fucking police officer who had tried to send them all to prison, talking about how to save Rio, acting like it’s not going to ruin their lives all over again.

Nairobi starts them off, saying she’ll do it, saying she’ll help get Rio back. One by one the others agree, as Andrés knew they would. They’re sheep – and stupid ones at that – willing to give everything up for this family they think they’ve created.

“Berlin?” Stockholm asks, her eyes wide and gentle.

Andrés doesn’t understand her, why she of all people – a hostage who ran away with a robber – is willing to put herself and her child in danger.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “The way I see it, little Rio got himself into this mess and we’re all expected to give up everything we’ve built over the past two years – for what?”

Denver clenches his jaw. “We’re a family, Berlin. And even if Rio did make a mistake, we owe it to him to help him!”

“Do we? Why exactly do we owe him, Denver? What exactly did Tokyo or Rio do during the heist that means I owe them anything?” Andrés hisses.

“Andrés,” Sergio says from the seat opposite him, his voice quiet and commanding. At the head of the table, seated between him and his brother, Raquel has a comforting hand on Sergio’s arm. “Let’s think about this rationally, the police could be doing anything to Rio right now, does he really deserve that?”

Andrés shakes his head, his lips flattened out into a thin line. “I never said he did, but I think we should all consider what we would be sacrificing – what we’ve already sacrificed.”

Tokyo scoffs. “What do you know about sacrifice Berlin? What would you really be losing if we got caught helping Rio? Your suits? We all know you go through wives like tissues, you’ve hardly had a problem leaving them behind before.”

“Watch your mouth,” Andrés warns, his voice low. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Sergio sighs. “Andrés she’s right, we all have something to lose but –”

“And maybe some of us have already lost it and don’t want to give up our one chance to get it back!” Andrés interrupts angrily, slamming his wine glass onto the table.

“That’s as may be,” Sergio says and he is looking at Andrés curiously, as if he’s a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. “But either way, Andrés, I’m going to need you for this plan to work.”

Andrés frowns at his younger brother. “What are you talking about?”

“Well,” Sergio says slowly and Andrés rolls his eyes at how the others lean forward in anticipation. “I think the best way to get Rio out, is if we break in somewhere.”

“And where would that be?” Andrés asks suspiciously.

Sergio cleans his glasses, the same nervous habit he’s had since he was six years old. “The Bank of Spain. We’ll break into the Bank of Spain and steal the country’s entire reserve of gold.”

There are gasps from the others, presumably at the boldness of what they believe to be Sergio’s plan. But it’s not his plan, it’s not and Andrés won’t let him use it for this. He’s on his feet before he even knows what he’s doing.

“No,” he says when Sergio opens his mouth. “No, I won’t allow it. You can’t take it from me, not this.”

He doesn’t like how desperate he sounds, but Sergio is frowning at him like he’s someone he doesn’t even recognise.

“Andrés, we have to. It’s the only plan we’ve got. I know it will involve contacting –”

“No!” Andrés repeats. “You can’t, Sergio. You can’t drag him back into this, when you forced him out years ago.”

Sergio’s frown deepens. “I didn’t force him out.”

“Oh don’t play innocent, hermanito,” Andrés says, his laugh ringing false even in his own ears. “You think Martín wouldn’t be right here, by my side now, if you hadn’t insisted he not be a part of the mint heist? And now you want to use my plan, my partner, to go fix what the kid screwed up? I won’t allow it.”

“What the fuck are you two talking about?” Tokyo asks from behind him. “Berlin, if the Professor needs to bring in this Martín person and use your plan, then fucking let him. Rio’s life is at stake.”

“I don’t care,” Andrés hisses at her. “About Rio or you, for that matter. Keep out of this, Tokyo.”

She grits her teeth. “No, I won’t. This concerns all of us – if the Professor says this is the plan, then it’s the plan.”

“Tokyo, please sit back down,” Sergio says, raising his hands placatingly. “Andrés, let’s just talk about this.”

Andrés shakes his head. “No, hermanito, I’m sorry. I gave you everything you asked for during the mint heist, I gave up everything. You can’t have this.”

“Martín?” Sergio asks. “That’s what you think I made you give up? All I did was tell you he couldn’t be part of the heist, Andrés.”

“That’s all?” Andrés sneers. “That’s all? I love you, hermanito, I really do. But you’re a cowardly wretch, who manipulates and controls and tries to get us all dancing like your little puppets and you can’t even fucking admit it!”

Raquel get to her feet too, slamming the flat of her hand onto the table, rattling the cutlery and glasses. “That’s enough! Berlin, I have no idea what either of you are talking about, but you need to get over it.”

Andrés feels his mouth curl up into a mirthless smile. “Of course, you defend him. I’d have thought of all people, you would see him for what he really is. Or has he successfully convinced you too, that he wasn’t just using you for intel and a bit of stress relief during the heist?”

He doesn't see the punch before he feels it. Raquel’s fist collides with his right eye and he stumbles back into his seat. Raquel stands over him, her fingers still curled, her hair splayed across her face. She doesn’t look shocked, the way Tatiana had when she slapped him, just angry.

“I said, that’s enough. Whatever issues you and your brother have, you can work out on your own time. I know the police, I know that since they haven’t reported Rio's arrest they’re most likely torturing him for information. He doesn’t deserve it and no matter how despicable you are, you know neither he nor any of us would hesitate to help you. So, sort your shit out and help Sergio with this plan.” Her eyes are icy when she finishes talking and stares him down.

He grins despite the pain blooming through the right side of his face. “Well, well aren’t you quite the little fighter,” he says, just because he knows it will annoy her. He looks at his brother who is still cowering behind her. “Hermanito, you can use the plan, but if you try and drop Martín again, even your tame cop won’t protect you.”

Raquel looks like she’s considering punching him again, but Sergio puts a gentling hand on her shoulder and shakes his head.

“Deal,” he says and Andrés takes a sip of his wine.

“Good. Now one of you go and get me some ice.”

* * *

**4. & 5\. Marseille and Bogotá**

Martín won’t speak to him. Andrés sort of expected it – he’d have been surprised if things just went back to normal. But it doesn’t make it any easier to experience. He longs to reach out, to apologise, to ask Martín if they can’t at least go back to the way things were.

But Martín never really gives him the chance. He drinks a lot – a habit clearly developed over the last few years, if his appearance and tolerance are anything to go by. He doesn’t come to meals often, skipping breakfast entirely and having dinner and lunch in his room. He’s very, very obviously avoiding Andrés and while the others are curious, they’ve so far managed to avoid outright asking Andrés about it.

His old friends whom he must now refer to as Marseille and Bogota look at Andrés with suspicion. They’d all met at around the same time so it’s not like they were Andrés’ friends before they were Martín’s, but it’s increasingly making Andrés feel alone in the place that was once his home.

Things between him and Sergio are still strained. After the incident in Sergio’s house in the Philippines, they’d spoken and Andrés had done his best to forgive Sergio. But every time Martín crosses the room to avoid being near him, every time Martín grabs a plate and goes to eat dinner alone who know's where, Andrés feels fresh anger lap at him. Because he and Martín were happy as they were and he knows eventually they could have been more than that - and try as he might, he can’t get over the fact that his brother prevented that.

It’s late, one evening the week before the heist and he’s leaving Sergio and Raquel’s room. They’ve been at least trying to get back to their easy relationship and surprisingly, Raquel’s presence helps more than it hinders that process.

He’s just started towards his room, when he hears several pairs of footsteps shuffling in from the courtyard. He rolls his eyes. Most of the gang had snuck out to the local town to some big party one of the bars was having and hadn’t been at all subtle about it. If he catches Denver wearing his clothes again though, there will be hell to pay.

He rounds the corner, prepared to frighten the younger gang members, but instead runs into Marseille and Bogota, supporting a nearly unconscious Martín between them.

“What the hell happened to him?” Andrés demands loudly, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Bogota scowls at Andrés, swaying a little as he points a wavering finger at him. “None of your fucking business.”

Marseille doesn’t say anything but from his demeanour he agrees with Bogota.

“Why?” Andrés asks. “Am I no longer even allowed to enquire after my friend?”

“Some friend you are,” Bogota scoffs, gesturing at Martín with the hand not currently holding him upright.

Andrés sighs. “I didn’t force him to get this drunk.” He leans forward, frowning, as he tries to get a good look at Martín’s slack face. “Wait, is that blood on his face? What happened?”

“Got into a fight with some asshole, who claimed Martín was hitting on him,” Bogota says, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“Was he?” Andrés asks.

“No,” Marseille says unexpectedly. “The guy was just out for a queer-bashing.”

Andrés’ heart sinks, even as anger roils in his gut. To see Martín this drunk, this vulnerable, this hurt, is harder than he imagined it would be. He isn’t sure how he’ll be able to stomach going into the bank with him, if this heist is going to be anything like the disaster in the mint.

“Is that why he got so drunk?”

Marseille shakes his head, but it’s Bogota that answers. “No, he was almost this drunk before that. Which reminds me.”

He hands Martín off to Marseille, draws his arm back and punches Andrés square in the face.

Andrés’ hands fly to his bleeding nose and he curses, long strings of words in every language he knows.

“What the fuck was that for?” he exclaims as Bogota folds his arms smugly.

“He told us,” Marseille says simply.

Andrés probes his nose, trying to determine whether it’s broken and stop the bleeding at the same time. “Told you what?”

Bogota cracks his knuckles, before slinging one arm back around Martín’s waist. “About the night you made him leave. Everything you did, everything you said. He’s still broken up about it.”

“I –” Andrés doesn’t know what to say.

“I thought you were better than that, de Fonollosa,” Bogota says. “Everyone knew the kid was in love with you – did you really have to go that far to crush him?”

Andrés hangs his head. “I only told him the truth.”

Marseille sniffs. “Soulmates?”

“The truth,” Andrés insists through clenched teeth.

“Yeah?” Bogota asks. “Then fucking act like it. We were going to find you tomorrow, but tonight will do too.”

Then he and Marseille are dumping Martín into Andrés’ mostly unprepared arms. He almost doesn’t catch him, but he manages to get both arms around him just in time. Bogota looks far too pleased with himself as Andrés ducks to get Martín’s limp arm over his shoulders and wraps his own around Martín’s waist.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Berlin,” Bogota says and they turn to go.

Just before they leave, Marseille doubles back and punches the arm Andrés doesn’t have around Martín so hard it goes numb and he’s sure it’ll be bruised tomorrow.

“Soulmates,” Marseille rumbles. “Prove it.”

Then they’re gone, leaving Andrés alone to support Martín, who is mostly dead-weight and smells very strongly of whiskey and is unconsciously clutching at Andrés like some sort of large koala.

Andrés sighs and starts walking, Martín stumbling along with him. He’s basically asleep, every now and then mumbling something incoherently into Andrés’ ear. Andrés’ room is closer so he just takes Martín there, unwilling to drag him halfway across the monastery.

Getting the door open is a little challenging, but soon they’re stumbling into the room and he drops Martín onto the bed as gently as he can.

Martín stirs a little when Andrés flicks on the dim bedside light, but he doesn’t actually open his eyes until Andrés kneels down and starts to untie his shoes.

“Drés?” he mumbles, propping himself just enough to be able to look at him. “What’re you doing?”

“Taking your shoes off,” Andrés says as dispassionately as he can.

Martín blinks. “Why?”

“Because I’m not letting you sleep in them.”

That seems to be enough of an answer for Martín, because he flops backwards onto the bed again. Andrés finishes pulling off his shoes, placing them neatly beside the bed, then goes to work on his trousers. Martín eyes him suspiciously, but lets it happen. Andrés wonders if Martín remembers how often Andrés did this for him, when they used to regularly get drunk on the wine they found in the cellar of the monastery.

When the trousers are off, Andrés chivvies Martín under the covers and starts undressing himself.

“Are you sleeping here?” Martín asks, his voice a bit clearer than it was before.

Andrés turns to look at him, buttoning his pyjama shirt. Martín is wrapped in the blankets, only his face and messy hair sticking out at the top. He looks unbelievably young and tired and Andrés wants to wrap his arms around him and never let go – has done for a while. He’s known it for a while too, if he’s completely honest. Too long to have let this distance between him and Martín grow like this.

“I am, this is my bed after all,” he says with a slight grin, but it doesn’t seem to have a humorous or soothing effect on Martín.

Instead, he pulls back the covers, making as if to get out of the bed. “I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

“No!” Andrés says, too loudly, too desperately.

Martín stares at him. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to,” Andrés confesses. “I want you to stay. Always. Or at least for now.”

“I’m too drunk to deal with this,” Martín groans, but he lies back down again. “And my face hurts.”

Andrés crosses to the other side of the bed. “So does mine. We’ll sort some icepacks tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Martín sighs, closing his eyes.

Andrés turns off the lights and crawls under the covers next to Martín. He throws an arm across Martín’s waist before he can even think about it, craving his touch without considering that it’s not his to have. Thankfully, Martín seems too tired to argue and just curls into Andrés, pressing his back against Andrés’ chest.

Andrés’ face throbs but he still presses his nose to Martín’s hair. He wonders if this is how Martín used to feel, desperate for even the smallest touch. If it is, Andrés owes him more than just an apology for that night five years ago.

* * *

**+1. Martín**

He wakes with Martín plastered to his back, chin hooked over Andrés’ shoulder, snoring gently in his ear, and the sun streaming in through the curtains he forgot to close. He’s unbelievably warm, sharing the thick woollen blankets with Martín and he is desperate for some water. At the same time, he absolutely doesn’t want to extricate himself from Martín’s arms, to lose whatever tenuously peaceful connection they currently share. He lies there for long enough that he actually manages to drift off again, waking only when Martín suddenly jerks away from him.

He rolls over and finds Martín staring at him, eyes wide, looking like he’s ready to run.

“I’m sorry,” they both say at the same time and Andrés frowns.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks Martín.

The other man shrugs. “I must have come in here last night when I was drunk.”

“Well technically you did,” Andrés says. “But you think I just let you stay after stumbling in here?”

“I guess so?” Martín says, although Andrés can see that even to him that doesn’t make sense. “Whatever happened, I’ll go now.”

It’s like last night all over again, but this time as Martín attempts to get out of bed, Andrés reaches out and grabs his wrist. Martín freezes, turning to look at him.

“Please stay,” he says and Martín does, still staring down at where Andrés’ hand is touching him.

Andrés swallows and he hasn’t been this nervous in years. “I’m sorry,” he says. “What I did, making you leave – it wasn’t right. I’ve regretted it every day since. If I could have come back earlier, I would have.”

Martín’s eyes are already a little glassy, with unshed tears when he looks up at Andrés. “It’s okay,” he says, even though it clearly isn’t. “You said what you had to, to make sure I’d leave.”

“No,” Andrés says, because after all this time he still knows how Martín thinks. “What I said, it was true. We were soulmates, Martín – I believe that we still are, even if you don’t. And I still love you, even if you don’t love me. And I still want you, even if you don’t want me.” Martín is staring at him, disbelievingly and Andrés forces himself to continue. “I’ll always be sorry for what I did, even if you never forgive me. And I’ll always care for you, even if after all this we never see each other again.”

He runs out of words and Martín is still just staring at him. Andrés hates it, because Martín always had an answer for everything and it reminds him too much of that night when Martín just stared after him, tears in his eyes, hands reaching for what Andrés wouldn't allow them to have. The emotions flickering across his face are too quick for Andrés to interpret, but so far he just looks shocked and kind of angry.

“If you’re going to hit me, I’d appreciate it if you picked an area Bogota missed last night,” Andrés tries for humour, gesturing at his face.

Martín frowns, gaze flickering up to look at Andrés. He reaches out, almost compulsively, tracing the edge of Andrés’ cheekbone with careful fingers.

“Why did he do that?” Martín asks, but he doesn’t sound as pleased about it as Andrés thought he would.

Andrés shrugs, trying and failing at nonchalance. “Ah, it seems you told him and Marseille about everything that happened between us and neither of them were feeling particularly affectionate towards me.”

A bitter smile turns up the corners of Martín’s mouth. “Well, I’m not going to thank them for it, but I can’t quite say you don’t deserve it.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Andrés says and Martín’s lips quirk into more of a real smile.

Martín’s hand is still on Andrés’ face, thumb moving down to just brush against the corner of his lips.

“But you needn’t fear the same sort of retaliation from me,” Martín says quietly. Andrés quirks an eyebrow.

“Oh no?”

“No, I quite like your face the way it is.”

“Well, that’s something at least.”

Martín huffs a tiny laugh, then his face straightens out into a more serious expression. “Did you mean it?” he asks and although his tone is guarded, his eyes speak volumes about his insecurity.

Andrés doesn’t ask what Martín is talking about. Instead he nods, face still in Martín’s hand.

“All of it,” he says. “I meant all of it, I always will.”

The slight tightening of Martín’s fingers on his cheek is the only warning he gets before Martín is leaning in, fitting their mouths together in a kiss much sweeter than any of the ones they shared five years ago.

“You’re sure?” Andrés can’t help but ask when Martín pulls away.

The other man smiles, the first proper one Andrés has seen on him in years. “Don’t give me a reason to doubt this.”

“Understood,” Andrés says and drags Martín back towards him.

-

Later, when the sun has risen further and Sergio has knocked on Andrés’ door three times to yell about class – and been told to fuck off each time – Martín rests his head on Andrés’ shoulder, stroking a hand along his ribs.

“Just so you know, if you ever pull anything like you did that night again, I’ll break your face,” he mumbles against the skin of Andrés throat.

Andrés presses a kiss to the top of his head. “You know, I think there might be a line if I do, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> yeahhh idk... sorry if it was all ooc, i'm bad at writing from Andrés' perspective
> 
> feel free to leave a kudos/comment, or scream at me on tumblr ([@hefellfordean](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com)) or twitter ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo))


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